The Beldame: a Halloween Story
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: Halloween tradition dares children to knock on the door of their local beldame (the neighborhood crone or spinster). But in Beacon Hills nothing is as it seems, and Stiles & his friends choose the wrong door to knock on. [Featuring Papa Stilinski and the Mini Pack Kids: Stiles, Scott, Lydia, Allison, Jackson & Isaac. {Written in 5 parts; complete} ]
1. Part One: Costume

**_Written in five parts. In honor of Halloween, Stiles and his friends knock on the door of the neighborhood Beldame (a witch, hag, crone, or old woman), but they choose the wrong door to knock on. Featuring Mini Pack Kids and Papa Stilinski!_**

* * *

 **The Beldame: A Halloween Story**

 **Part One**

Sheriff John Stilinski _hated_ Halloween with a passion. Besides his belief the holiday inspired in children negative attitudes of avarice, gluttony, envy, and self-entitlement, it was the busiest and most chaotic night of the year for the sheriff's department – and, therefore, the worst night to be working. From false alarms to crank calls, fearsome and dangerous pranks to pumpkin smashing, drunken disorderlies to indecent exposure, public intoxication to reckless driving, trespassing to disruptions of the peace, and just general mischief and mayhem – Halloween was the one night of the year troublemakers and lunatics seemed hellbent on making the lives of first-responders miserable. Dispatchers swamped in calls, struggling to discern which were valid and which were fake; officers, firefighters, and EMTs who were required to answer every call, stretched too thin over too wide an area. Serious crimes and injuries, grotesque and bizarre occurrences only Halloween could produce, dotted amongst wastes of time and emergency resources. Rampant paranoia and idiocy at its height.

Then add to this mix of havoc and misdemeanors, hordes of poorly-supervised children in costumes running amok, fueled by ungodly amounts of sugar, and banging on strangers' doors demanding a treat or else be tricked. Accidents and incidents just waiting to happen. Tricksters waiting in the shadows for the inevitable opening of Pandora's treat bag of nightmares. Or else something much, much more terrifying.

Over the past decade and a half, almost three dozen children had gone missing from the Beacon Hills area. The majority of these kids had vanished on Halloween night, after becoming separated from their parents or friends. Gone without a trace. A parent's worst nightmare, and Sheriff Stilinski, first in the capacity of deputy and then as sheriff, had been given the unfortunate task of interviewing the missing child's parents: when was the child last seen and by whom; could they provide a physical description of the child; was there any place the child might have gone of his or her own volition, a clubhouse or a favorite play area; was it possible the child could be hiding, playing a cruel joke; was there anyone who wanted to hurt the family; would the child have left with a stranger; did they have a current photograph of the child that he might circulate? Question after question. Textbook material: missing posters and news stories, amber alerts that eventually faded into the background. One routine question complicated by Halloween: what was the child wearing? A hundred different answers which would make it impossible to miss such a child, if not for the hundreds of other children in disguises: ghosts and vampires, Disney princesses and comic superheroes, fairies and Frankensteins, pirates and cowboys, aliens and zombies, animals and inanimate objects.

Frantic parents who wrung their hands, gazed blankly out windows and at walls, as they responded, and hurled questions rapid-fire back at him: how could this happen? Why? Where could their baby have gone? The only thing John feared more than the unknowing, the awkwardness when once again he couldn't give them answers, was knowing. He was terrified someday he would find their children, broken and bloody, abandoned corpses in faded Halloween costumes, and he would have to knock on their front doors. The bearer of the worst news imaginable. The harbinger of death.

Sheriff Stilinski _hated_ being on duty on October 31st.

He poured himself a generous mug of black coffee, and added a dram of whiskey to calm his nerves. The front door slammed shut. Apparently his son had returned from school. Was it so late already? "Stiles! How many times have I told you not to slam that door?"

"Sorry, Dad." A messy head of brown hair, connected to an equally unruly boy of eleven, bounded into the kitchen. Stiles let his book-bag slide off his shoulder onto the floor. He hopped onto a stool at the breakfast counter. He grabbed an apple from a nearly-empty fruit bowl, and bit into it.

Sheriff Stilinski sipped his coffee and grimaced. "How was school today?"

"Fine." Stiles kicked his legs back and forth, banging the underside of the counter. He chewed noisily, and stared at his father expectantly. Sheriff Stilinski wondered how much Adderall Stiles had taken. He really needed to better monitor Stiles' medication. Stiles sighed dramatically.

Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Stiles?"

"Did you get it?"

"Get what?" The sheriff turned and rinsed his mug in the sink. At first Stiles wasn't sure if his father was kidding him. He placed the mug upside-down in the dish-rack and waited patiently for his son to answer. Stiles groaned.

"Daaaadd," he whined, "you promised you'd pick up my costume this morning!" All week Sheriff Stilinski had been too busy to take Stiles costume shopping. Aside from his usual shifts, he had been investigating past missing persons cases, preparing classroom Halloween safety lectures, and organizing deputy assignments, all in an effort to keep the children of Beacon Hills safe this Halloween and keep the sheriff's station functioning like a well-oiled machine. Stiles had gotten tired of waiting on his father, and he had gone to the local party supply and costume store with Scott. He had found an awesome Batman outfit, complete with mask, cape, and utility belt. Mr. Barrister, the kindly old man who owned and managed the shop, promised to set the costume aside for Stiles. His father just needed to come into the store before he closed on Halloween and pay for it. Sheriff Stilinski had promised Stiles he would pick the costume up that morning, while he was out buying the milk and toilet paper they desperately needed.

Sheriff Stilinski had completely forgotten. He placed his hands on either side of the sink and sighed. He had gotten distracted poring over the missing children's files, looking for patterns, similarities, and clues – anything to link the victims. He had become so absorbed in the cases, he had neglected his morning errands altogether. He hadn't even purchased groceries. "Stiles, I'm sorry. I was busy, and I-"

"It's fine, Dad." Stiles slid off the stool and padded out of the room. Sheriff Stilinski pinched the bridge of his nose. Claudia had always been the one to juggle the details of their everyday lives: keeping the fridge well-stocked; making sure they had enough bathroom tissue, coffee, and vitamins; stockpiling the medicine cabinet with cold remedies, cough syrups, and two types of Tylenol – extra-strength for John and children's for Stiles. She had baked cookies for sports team fundraisers, attended PTA meetings, prepared nutritious school lunches, patched the holes in Stiles' jeans, changed the bed sheets once a week, and purchased or made the required costumes, valentines, decorations, painted eggs, and extravagant feasts for holidays. John hadn't realized how much Claudia did – and how incapable he was at running a household – until she was no longer there to help him.

Sheriff Stilinski found Stiles in the living room. He was flicking through television channels, staring blankly at the images that flashed on the screen. Stilinski checked his wrist-watch. It was five minutes after four. "Maybe there's still time to get you a costume. Maybe not the Batman one you wanted, but-"

"Stores close early on Halloween. Don't worry, Dad. It's okay. I'll wear last year's costume." Sheriff Stilinski considered the long legs stretched out on the coffee table, the lanky arms drooping lazily at his sides. In the last six months alone, Stiles had experienced a growth-spurt that had pushed him up three inches and two shoe sizes. He'd never fit into clothes from a year ago.

Sheriff Stilinski hated disappointing his son. Worse yet, he hated the silent indifference with which Stiles accepted these disappointments. Where was the usual crying, arguing, and tantrums typical of children that age? When had facing disappointment become a simple fact of his everyday life? When had he started to expect his father would let him down? Yet another reason for the sheriff to hate Halloween: he would always remember this as the year he had failed to buy Stiles a costume.

He needed to fix this. Sheriff Stilinski grabbed the remote from Stiles and turned off the TV. "Come on."

"Where?"

"Just come on." Sheriff Stilinski nudged Stiles' feet off the coffee table and climbed the stairs. Stiles sighed, and grudgingly followed him up to his father's bedroom. He sat on the bed, as the sheriff threw open the closet door and rummaged inside. Over his shoulder, Stiles could just glimpse his father's dress shirts and his one good suit jacket, his formal uniform for special occasions like officers' balls and police funerals. To one side, partially hidden from view, Stiles could see the soft fabrics of the select few of his mother's dresses his dad couldn't part with: scarlet satin and dandelion cotton, lavender polyester that brushed the floor. Stiles recognized a cobalt velvet one from the photo above the living room mantle, a white lace sundress he remembered her wearing at his seventh birthday party. His father bypassed all these. Ignored the shoes tidily lined, the boxes neatly labelled and stacked. He seemed to be searching for something specific. "It's got to be here somewhere," the sheriff muttered to himself.

"What?"

"Maybe it's in the trunk." Sheriff Stilinski cleared papers, blankets, and dirty shirts off a wooden chest in the corner. He glanced inside. "Yes! Here it is." Stiles knelt beside him, peering into the trunk of wonders. He had always assumed it was full of linens, or something equally boring. Instead the chest contained mementos and memories: photo albums and keepsakes, award ribbons and old toys, ticket stubs and handcrafted cards, a bridal veil and wedding cake topper, postcards and tacky souvenirs from American and foreign cities. Treasures from a life before Stiles. He picked up a first place ribbon. "Your mother used to ride horses when she was a teenager," the sheriff told him. "Here, look." He handed Stiles a faded photo. A beautiful girl held the reins of a white and black Appaloosa. Its mane was smartly plaited, but her own braid was loose and messy. She was holding a bouquet of flowers and grinning. She looked so young, so happy, so free. Stiles couldn't believe this young beauty was his mother. The image of Claudia he remembered most was the last one: sick and ashen, small in a stark white hospital bed. But wait – there, in the laughing dimples and in the warm brown eyes, he could see his mother. Could see her smiling and covered in flour up to her elbows, as he helped her bake an anniversary cake for his father.

"How's this for a costume? This is the real deal: everything I have left from my days as a rookie cop with the LAPD." From the trunk, the sheriff withdrew a folded navy blue shirt, a black belt, a dark tie, and a peaked hat. He shook out the shirt: it was collared, with long sleeves and small black buttons. Los Angeles Police Department patches were sown onto the shoulders. Over the left breast was pinned a shining gold badge: the LA City Hall against a backdrop of the rays of the setting western sun; the designation of city, department, and rank; and, at the bottom, a series of numbers. "That's my badge number," the sheriff said. On the right breast was a simple rectangular tag Stiles liked best of all: "J. Stilinski."

"Go ahead, try it on." Stiles pulled his hoodie over his head, and he put his arms through the sleeves. His fingers trembled with excitement as he buttoned up. The material felt cool and heavy against his t-shirt. It smelled of mothballs and stale wood, but beneath those scents he could smell the tiniest whiff of his father. He imagined a young John patrolling city streets wearing this shirt, clean and slender, his hands on his hips, an optimistic gleam in his eye.

The uniform was too long, but Stiles tucked the bottom of the shirt into his jeans to hide its length. His father helped him roll up the cuffs so they didn't extend beyond his wrists. Sheriff Stilinski smoothed down the collar and adjusted the badge. As he knotted the matching elongated tie around the boy's neck, Stiles touched the nameplate at his breast. The sheriff placed the hat on Stiles' head. The boy tipped his head back to keep its rim out of his eyes. John nodded towards the mirror. "Take a look."

Stiles stood on tiptoe and examined his reflection. The uniform was a little big, but not unattractively so. He'd grow into those clothes someday soon. Sheriff Stilinski's heart hiccoughed at the full effect of Stiles in his old uniform. He smiled fondly at his son. "What do you think? It might not be the Dark Knight, but it's a genuine crime-fighting outfit."

"It's awesome! Thanks, Dad!" Stiles wrapped his arms around his father's waist. Sheriff Stilinski looked at the oversized hat balanced on his son's wild mop of dark hair, and the love in his heart flared and swelled, growing until it erupted into a paralyzing sense of foreboding he couldn't shake. Stiles would be walking the dark streets, while he was stuck at work. He may have been dressed like a man, but he was only a boy yet. Small, innocent, and vulnerable. A child playing dress-up in the old clothes of a man who had seen blood and horror.

Sheriff Stilinski put his hands on Stiles' shoulders and crouched down so they were at eye level. Stiles was fidgeting with the heavy gun belt slipping down his narrow hips, trying to make it stay up. "I think I have a squirt gun I could..." he trailed off, looking full into his father's face. John's jaw was rigidly set, his mouth creased in frown lines, his pale eyes serious and urgent. He pressed the tips of his fingers into Stiles' skin. "I need you to listen to me, okay Stiles? This is important. Are you listening?" The boy nodded. "Yeah."

"Under _no_ circumstances are you to wander off alone tonight. You and your friends stay together as a group. No one goes off on their own, for any reason, do you understand?" Stiles nodded again. "I realize Halloween involves talking to strangers, but be smart. Don't give out any personal information, and don't leave with anyone, no matter what they say to you or promise. Watch out for cars. Stay in well-lit areas. If something happens, get to a phone and call me. You'll need to take care of the others. Keep them safe. I'm counting on you to take care of everyone, okay?"

"Okay." Stiles stood up straighter. He felt the weight of his father's badge on his chest. He felt it giving him strength and purpose. Policemen protected and guarded people. They were brave. Tonight he would play Guardian. Tonight he would be brave.

"Good boy." Sheriff Stilinski checked his watch. If he didn't leave now, he would be late for his shift. He rose from the floor, but Stiles grabbed his hand. "Dad?"

"Yes, Stiles?"

"I'm glad you forgot my Batman costume."

Sheriff Stilinski squeezed Stiles' hand and then released it. "Be careful out there tonight."

John _hated_ working Halloween night.


	2. Part Two: Trick Or Treat

**Part Two: Trick or Treat**

At quarter after five, Stiles knocked on the McCalls' front door. Melissa McCall answered. She was dressed in jeans and a floral-print blouse, her dark curls hung loosely around her shoulders. Stiles was always a little surprised to see her dressed causally without her work scrubs. In his mind, she seemed to exist as an embodiment of her job, just like his father. "Nurse" wasn't her occupation any more than "sheriff" was John Stilinski's: it was simply who she was, an essential part of her heart and personality. She smiled warmly at the boy on her doorstep. "Hi, Stiles. Don't you look handsome?"

"Hey Mrs. McCall. Is Scott ready yet?"

Suddenly a tiny ball of fur and teeth leapt out from behind the woman, its massive claws raised above its head, poised to attack. "Raaaawwwwrrr!"

"Hey Scott."

"Aw, man." Scott removed his wolf mask and stared at Stiles glumly. He had been waiting for this moment all day – his big costume reveal, and his chance to scare his best friend. Stiles was always startling him or playing jokes on him, but he could never seem to get Stiles back. "Weren't you scared at all?"

"Why would I be scared of a dog?"

"I'm not a dog! I'm a werewolf! See? Grrrr!" Scott shook his furry mask in Stiles' face. Stiles didn't react; Scott stuck out his bottom lip dejectedly. His mother hid a chuckle behind her hand. Scott surveyed Stiles from head to toe, from sneaker to peaked hat. His eyes lingered on the shiny golden badge. "What happened to your Batman costume?"

"This is better." Scott had to agree. The outfit was a tad large on Stiles, but the thick cotton and real metal accessories far exceeded the usual thin fabric, cheap rubber, and dull plastic of mass-produced Halloween costumes.

"Before you go, let me take a picture," Melissa said. The two boys stood side-by-side, hips touching, arms thrown around each other's shoulders. They smiled their wide, toothy grins for the camera. Melissa snapped a couple photos, and then a couple more. Freezing in time this perfect moment of childhood happiness and friendship. Another image for the scrapbook she had already started and would add to over the years. Photos of Halloween costumes and lacrosse games, birthdays and Christmases, dances and school days, first cars and first loves, summer afternoons at the beach and sneaky candids of the ordinary moments that build a life of memories. Graduations, college dorms, weddings, a new generation of little McCalls and Stilinskis. Melissa stared at the tiny screen, at her two handsome boys, trying to imagine it all. She wished she could keep them this age forever.

"Uh, Mom, can we go now?" Scott asked. His mother's eyes were misty. She broke from her reverie and laughed. She handed Scott an empty pumpkin bucket. She kissed her son's cheek, before he pulled on his werewolf mask. His face was completely covered except for the two round holes for his eyes, the edges of his flesh just peeking out. The large mocha eyes were too thoughtful, too innocent, too friendly to belong to a were-canine.

"You boys be careful," she ordered, "and have fun!"

Scott and Stiles had arranged to meet their friends at the elementary school. Three of the four remaining members of their gang were already there. They were waiting at the swing-set. Allison Argent was pumping her legs, pushing the air as hard as she could, gaining altitude and then falling back in a rush of wind that thrilled her. Her chestnut hair was wild and tousled, tangling in the breeze as she swung back and forth. Her legs were clad in striped orange and black stockings, which matched her outfit: a raven colored dress accented in spider webs and pumpkins, a satiny red-orange fabric blended among the stark black polyester. On the ground beside her waited a short straw broomstick and a tall pointed hat.

She was laughing loudly. "Come on, Lyds!" she encouraged. "Swing with me!"

Lydia Martin was seated on the swing beside her. She sat primly with her hands folded in her lap. Her strawberry-blond hair was perfectly curled and pinned. A silver crown with plastic gems perched delicately on her head. She was adorned in an ankle-length lavender gown, which curved and fanned prettily around her. "I can't, Ally," she answered with a patience beyond her years. "If I do, my dress will ride up and wrinkle, and I'll mess up my hair."

"Oh, pooh!" Allison gripped the chains and leaned back, shaking her untidy mane and laughing.

"Some people have no regard for appearances," Jackson commented. He leaned sideways against one of the swingset's vertical beams. He was clothed in green fabric, with swatches of brown at his knees, elbows, and feet. A lighter beige material extended from his chest to his abdomen. A belt at his waist tied a plastic shell around his back. His face was bare, except for a red bandana around his eyes. He was twirling a plastic sai in his hand as he spoke. "I think you're quite right to want to look nice, Lydia. There's nothing wrong with being pretty."

Allison stuck her tongue out at him. As she rose into the air, she saw Scott and Stiles entering the schoolyard. "Hey guys! You're here!" She jumped from her swing, landing with both feet in the gravel. She raced over to greet them, her cheeks flushed.

"Hi, Allison," Scott said shyly.

Jackson and Lydia came over to them. Lydia handed her friend her hat and broom. She inspected Stiles and Scott with an appraising eye. The werewolf and the policeman. She thought Stiles was coming as Batman, but she liked this outfit much better. The blue really brought out his eyes, and she liked being able to see his face. She didn't understand boys' fascinations with wearing masks, especially if they had nice faces, like Stiles. "I like your costume, Stiles."

"Thanks, Lydia."

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. "You're late," he grumbled. Lydia subtly elbowed him, and Allison rolled her eyes. Scott glanced around the playground and surrounding yard. They were one person short. They couldn't begin trick-or-treating until they were all together.

"Where's Isaac?" he asked.

"Late," Jackson complained. Weren't kids punctual anymore? Didn't they have common decency and manners? Did good breeding mean nothing? He harrumphed. "We should just go without him."

"No," Scott was adamant. "We're waiting for him."

Allison agreed. "I'm sure he'll be here soon." While they waited they figured out their game-plan. They wanted to hit as many houses as possible in the few hours they were given before curfew. Lydia thought they should stick to the surrounding neighborhood, working up one side of the street and then down the other, to increase efficiency and decrease walking and effort, especially since they needed to account for the additional weight of candy as their bags filled. Jackson wanted to walk a few blocks north to one of the richer neighborhoods. He was positive the payoff would be better. Allison wanted to hit the more populated areas, where they might see more of the kids from school. Scott preferred quieter neighborhoods, where he could focus on his friends.

Stiles was oddly quiet during this discussion. He was watching the sun slowly trek across the sky, watching as traffic thinned and the streets came alive with the sounds of chatter, doorbells, and laughter. He was alert to everything around them. He felt he was seeing with new eyes, noticing details he wouldn't have before: every shadow and looming figure, every car and house. He was beginning to wonder if Isaac would ever come, when he noticed a lanky form loping across the soccer field towards them.

The newcomer stopped beside Allison, and bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was dressed in baggy black jeans, and a long black shirt, no different from what he would wear on a normal day. On his head he wore a hideous sack, and over the sack a bowler hat with bits of straw glued underneath. The yarn stitched mouth was crooked, appearing to smirk and grimace simultaneously. There were no openings in the sack, not even eye holes, so that not a single inch of the face was exposed.

"Isaac?" Allison asked cautiously.

"Sorry. I'm. Late." The boy beneath the sack panted, and the kids instantly relaxed as they recognized the voice of their friend.

"Didn't put much effort into your costume, did you?" Jackson sneered, earning him another elbow from Lydia. The skinny, faceless boy ignored this jab. Scott patted him on the back and told him he was just in time.

A policeman, a werewolf, a witch, a princess, a ninja turtle, and a scarecrow set out. Their significance lost as they were swallowed by a sea of shrieks and shouts, of pleases and thank-yous, of delights and disappointments, of ghouls and goblins and fantasy creatures. They stayed together as a group, feeling a heightened sense of independence as they passed little children, whose hands were clasped by harried parents or guardians who commanded them not to stray too far ahead.

Their treat bags filled with chocolates and candies, mini bags of chips and cans of soda, tins of mints and raisins, juices boxes and sugar packets, lollipops and gumdrops. After one house, Jackson pulled a toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste out of his sack and curled up this nose. "What is this?" he demanded.

"A toothbrush, obviously," Lydia answered calmly.

"I _know_ that. Where's the candy?"

She nodded back at the house. "Dr. Ryan lives there. He's a dentist."

They continued to collect treats, their bags growing heavy, until they practically had to drag themselves up the street. Stiles began to loosen up and enjoy himself, allowing his ultra vigilance to fade into the background. Even Isaac, who had been extraordinary quiet all evening, begun to make his presence known, laughing and joking, trading goodies with Allison and sneaking extra pieces into her tote. Yet he never removed his hood, even as dusk fell. Scott had rolled his mask up an hour ago, keeping it curled back on his head, and enjoying the cool October breeze on his face.

Jack o' Lanterns winked at them from porches and window sills. Ghosts shivered and swayed from tree branches. The yellow eyes of black cats followed them, as their footsteps pounded on the pavement. Over-ripe apples, too heavy for their twigs, littered lawns. The kids scooped these up and threw them at each other. A couple of smushed apples escalating into an all-out war. Lydia screamed and shielded herself, as fruits and dead leaves were hurled around her. Allison grinned wickedly, and with her expert aim hit her target every time. Jackson dodged and used his shell. Isaac mastered the element of surprise.

They were shooed from a yard by a middle-aged man with vampire fangs, and the game changed into tag, the kids whooping and yelling as they raced down the street. The sun was steadily descending over the horizon. The darkness casting its long fingers and extinguishing the light. Street lamps flickered on, casting pools of pale light. It wasn't until the children paused for breath, exhausted and thrilled and flushed with young blood, that Stiles realized where they were – or, rather, where they were not. He straightened and stiffened, inspecting the area. Night made familiar landscapes strange, and it took him a while to figure out where they were.

Fewer houses dotted this stretch of road, identical and indistinguishable in the darkness. Yards sloped and extended, bordered by tall dark trees. Their branches gnarled fingers stooped and looming over paved streets. In the dark, the green grass looked black, and the wind in the leaves was the whisper of spirits. Up ahead, the sidewalk disappeared, seamlessly merging into a back-road leading into the country. Rolling hills blended into a sea of sinister forest. Stiles searched for a street sign. The intersection read, "Pineview Crescent."

Stiles knew this street. If they continued down this road, up over the hill, they would reach the graveyard where his mother was buried. He had never been there after sunset, and he didn't think he wanted to be. There were fewer people out, fewer cars. Many of the houses had darkened windows. He could now distinguish For Sale signs staked in the yards. This neighborhood, he remembered, was under development. A decade ago, it hadn't existed at all, this area nothing more than countryside.

The air was still and silent, broken only by the joyful babble of his friends. Lydia noticed Stiles' sudden silence, the tension in his face. She touched his hand gently. "What is it, Stiles?"

When he looked at her, his eyes were stern and reserved, like those of a man. "We need to get out of here." Louder, he said, "Guys, we need to leave." The chatter stopped. Five sets of eyes looked at him questioningly, wondering at the authoritative tone in his voice. "We shouldn't be in this area." Poorly lit, poorly populated, poorly trafficked, situated at the edge of town. He should have paid more attention. He never should have let them come this way.

Stiles took Lydia's hand, and she began to follow him back the way they had come. Isaac, Allison, and Scott followed suit, convinced by the grown-up influence with which he led them. The common sense their parents had instilled in them slowly returning.

"Wait." Jackson stood rooted to the spot. He pointed across the street. A dirt walkway snaked from the sidewalk to an old house. It was weather-beaten, with a sagging front porch and peeling red shutters. Half-hidden by tall trees and overgrown bushes, it seemed to lean slightly to one side. Lights blazed in two of the downstairs rooms behind pink patterned curtains. Smoke curled from a little chimney. "We haven't been there yet."

"We have enough candy, Jackson," Stiles said. "Let's go." Jackson shook his head and bolted across the road. "Jackson." Stiles looked both ways for cars before stepping into the street. The entire gang trailed after the bullheaded Jackson. The kids stared up at the house. It was ancient, but they could see rose bushes, lovingly tended, and a garden of wild flowers. A faint whiff of cookies reached them.

"We haven't even done the best Halloween tradition of all!" Jackson told them.

"What tradition is that?" Scott asked.

"The Beldame tradition."

"Which is?"

"One of us has to knock on the door of an old crone."

"That's it?" Allison asked, placing her hands on her hips. She rolled her eyes. "We just knock on the door and then what?"

"You ask her for a treat." Jackson pointed at the house behind him. "It's a dare only the bravest kids do. You can't pick just any old lady. You have to pick an ugly one. A weird old hag who lives all alone. I've been in this neighborhood before. My father helped acquire the land for the development company. He told me this woman's been living in this house for at least fifty years. She hardly ever leaves. She's really strange. She talks to herself and there are spider webs _all over_ her house. I think one of us should pay her a visit."

"This is ridiculous."

"It is Halloween, isn't it? And I dare Isaac to knock on her door. What do you say, Isaac? Are you chicken?" The Lahey boy was silent. His body was rigid, as Jackson continued to sling insults at him. None of which he defended or denied. Jackson started clucking and flapping his arms in Isaac's face. "What's wrong with you? Are you retarded or something?" Jackson shoved him.

"Hey!" Allison leapt forward and pushed Jackson. "You're a jerk!"

"Why don't you go then, _Allison_ , if you're so brave?" The girl looked up at the towering house, eerie and shadowed.

"Why don't you go? It was your stupid idea!"

"Because I thought of it. Besides, I know I'm brave. I just doubt these guys are. Like Scott here. I bet Scott never did a brave thing in his entire life. He just cowers behind his mommy."

"I do not!" Scott's hands balled into fists at his sides, and he glared at Jackson. Jackson returned his stare. This was escalating too quickly, and Stiles knew it was only seconds before someone did something stupid. He was supposed to be taking care of them. He was their protector tonight.

"I'll go," Stiles volunteered. Everyone stared at him in surprise. "The sooner we get this dumb 'tradition' over with, the sooner we can all go home." Stiles pushed open the front gate. It creaked on its rusty hinges, the squeal sending a cold shiver down Stiles' spine. "You guys stay here. Together." He took a deep breath and ascended to the house. The shadows seemed to grow and expand around him, surrounding him, ready to open their large jaws and swallow him. He resisted the urge to look back, to turn and run. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately through the yard to the front porch, where a single dull light shined its pale radius on the door.

There was no doorbell. Stiles lifted his fist and knocked. Inside he could hear the creaking of wooden furniture, the shuffle of slippers on the floor. "Coming!" The door was unlatched and opened, revealing an old grandmother of a woman, a shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders. The blue, spidery veins protruded from under her colorless paper skin, as she opened the door and welcomed him. Her thin lips pulled taunt across her teeth into a smile. She was not ugly, nor was she pretty. She appeared to Stiles simply grey and frail, a brittle wisp of a woman. But her liquid cobalt eyes seemed to blaze with a hidden fire. "Such a handsome young policeman at my door!"

"Trick or treat?" Stiles asked uncertainly.

"No one ever comes to my door, dear me. My house is too far out, and young children never want to bother with a poor old woman like me. But I believe I have something for you, my sweet. Come in for a moment, and I'll see what I have."

Stiles stepped over the threshold. She closed the door softly behind him, and he was consumed by the great, ancient house.


	3. Part Three: Into the House

**Part Three: Into the House**

The children watched as Stiles bravely marched up to the spooky house, knocked on the door, and was ushered inside by a dark silhouette. He disappeared into the rectangle of light, and then was gone. They waited with bated breath. Waited and waited. A lot of time seemed to pass, but it could have been only a couple minutes. None of the children had watches, and time dragged by slowly as they waited, trembling on the sidewalk from the chill seeping into their bones and from anxiety. There was no apparent movement within the house. No shadows passing behind the curtains. They watched restlessly for any sign of Stiles or the old woman. Not a word was spoken. The street was silent as a tomb.

"Stiles has been in there a long time," Scott said finally. He was worried. "We shouldn't have let him go in there in the first place. This was a stupid idea, Jackson!"

"You're only supposed to knock on the old woman's door. You're not supposed to go inside!"

"He only went up there because _you_ were being a jerk! If you wanted to do the Beldame tradition so badly, you should have gone yourself!"

"Don't blame me for what Stilinski does!" Jackson fired back.

Scott's hands balled into fists. Jackson's words broke the final straw which had been maintaining what little patience he had left. "You're always such an arrogant _prick!_ " His mother would hate that he had used such foul language, but he didn't care. Jackson _was_ a prick. An idiot. A bumhole. A _bastard._ "You don't care about anyone but yourself!" Scott lashed out at the other boy, shoving him to the ground and tumbling after him. Candy scattered across the pavement. Scott's werewolf mask and Jackson's red bandanna were ripped off in the scuttle, as the two boys wrestled. They rolled over the dirty street, tossing punches and obscenities at one another.

Isaac jumped into the middle of the fray and attempted to separate the two boys. Allison was there beside Isaac, first sternly commanding them and then fiercely yelling for them to "Stop! Just stop!" She stomped her foot. "This isn't helping Stiles." But the battle raged on.

Isaac had managed to grab Scott's shoulders, and he was trying to pry his friend off Jackson, when a stray hand came up and accidentally struck him in the face. Though it had connected with an unintentional target, the blow packed a wallop. Isaac stumbled backward. The lanky boy instinctively threw his arms in front of his face to shield himself. He cowered away from them, but no one noticed and no further punches were aimed at him.

Allison was at the point of losing her cool altogether. Stupid boys and their stupid fights. Morons, all of them! She resorted to drastic measures. She seized her broomstick, wondering if it would be best utilized as a crowbar or a club. She was leaning towards the latter, more violent option. She raised the broom above her head, and was about to bring it down, when she was stopped by Lydia.

The pretty redhead hadn't taken her gaze from the house during all this fighting. She continued to stare apprehensively, though she didn't know quite what she was looking for. Her knuckles were white as she tightly gripped the fence. Stiles' name was an unspoken chant on her lips, as if she could magically summon him from the house, if her will was strong enough. A breeze fluttered through the trees in the yard. The whispers of the leaves sounded like the voices of frightened children.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her temples. She grabbed her head and screamed.

"Lydia!" All fighting ceased instantly. Any animosity immediately and completely forgotten, as only children are capable. Allison ran to her friend's aid. She placed a gentle hand on the girl's back. "Lydia, what is it?"

Lydia's baby-blues were wide and wet with tears. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. The tears trickled down her cheeks. She tried to speak but choked on the sound. Allison rubbed her back in soothing circles. The three boys crowded around worriedly. "It's okay. You're okay. Take a deep breath."

"Stiles!" Lydia sobbed, and snapped her head up. She glared wildly at the offending house. "Something's wrong!" She didn't know how she knew something was wrong with Stiles. She just did. "We need to go in there."

The others looked at each other fearfully. "I'm sure he's okay, Lydia," Allison reassured her. Lydia shook her head forcefully. "We should wait here and-"

"I'll go." Scott stepped forward. His face was drawn in resolution, but a flicker of fear flashed in his brown eyes. "I'm going up there." He reiterated, swallowing his nerves. If his best friend was in trouble, he needed to act. He felt instinctively, somewhere deep inside, that Lydia was right. He trusted her intuition.

"I'm going too," Isaac said, stepping up beside Scott.

"We all go," Allison decided. She glared at Jackson, whose left eye was puffing up, daring him to disagree with her. She knew they were safer as a group. There was security in numbers. "No more splitting up."

The others nodded in agreement, even Jackson. He could tell there was no point in arguing, and there was a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. His guts felt twisted and topsy-turvey. This feeling was called guilt, he believed. He didn't like it. If anything happened to Stilinski, everyone would blame him. They all seemed to really like the kid, and he just knew they'd hate him if the idiot got killed. Lydia would never like-like him if that happened. "Okay," Jackson said. "But if he's dead, we run like hell."

The tears dried in Lydia's eyes as the group ascended the pathway. Self-possession took over as she shifted into emergency mode. She needed to keep her head clear, in case they ran into trouble. She followed closely behind Scott, who had naturally fallen into the leader position. It wasn't until they were standing on the front porch that they realized they didn't have a plan, and there wasn't any time to formulate one. "Just stay close to me," Scott instructed, raising his hand to knock.

An old woman answered the door. She wore faded purple slippers, a floral house dress, and a plain, bleached waist apron. She was wrapped in a heavy knitted shawl, which had slipped slightly to uncover one thin shoulder. Her snow-white hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Around her neck, her reading glasses hung on a beaded strap. In her wrinkled and leathery face, deep blue eyes shone and twinkled mischievously, clear and sharp. In her left hand, she clutched a pair of knitting needles. "Ah, more trick-or-treaters, but so late!" None of the kids knew what to say. Of course, dressed in their Halloween costumes, she could assume they were there for sweets. "What do we have here?" Her knowing eye passed over them critically. "An alpha wolf cub, a wailing girl, a witch hunter, a wrathful lizard-"

"Who are you calling a lizard?" Jackson demanded, forgetting his uneasiness. He pounded the shell on his back. "I'm a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, you blind old bat. Ninja _turtle._ "

The old woman ignored him. Her penetrating gaze fell finally on Isaac and rested there. "-and a scared little boy with a very dark, very grownup secret." She smiled. "I suppose it's sweets you want. Come in, children. Come in." The old woman beckoned them inside and shut the door behind them. "We don't want to heat the outdoors." She cackled.

The house was pleasantly warm and clean. The entryway was decorated with striped wallpaper, a low table above which hung an oval plated mirror, and an antique coat-rack. A living room opened on the left-hand side, with soft cushioned sofas and wooden furniture draped with lace doilies. A muted television played a black-and-white horror film. A rocking chair faced the screen, a basket of yarn at its feet.

On the other side of the entryway lay a beautiful dining room straight from a magazine advertisement. The wallpaper was a pale blue, and the matching furniture was a dark mahogany: a table for six with high-backed chairs, a large cabinet full of lovely china, a buffet with flower vases and a display of delicate tea sets. Through an opening at the end, they could glimpse a kitchen which had gone out of style in the 70s, but was clean and well-kept. Everything in the house was perfectly preserved and perfectly ordered. Not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Just ahead of them was an old wooden staircase with slanting steps, leading up to the remainder of the darkened house. Overall the atmosphere was homey and cozy, warm and inviting. A grandmother's house with yummy treats baking, timeless treasures and rooms full of history worth exploring, stories and mysterious creaks and crannies. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of baking and potpourri, peppermint oil and bleach, the musty mothball smell that plagued the old, no matter how thoroughly they washed and cleaned, and an underlying earthy smell, faint and strange, like decaying leaves and damp soil.

"I don't have any candy, but I've just made a fresh batch of cookies." The old woman shuffled into the living room and retrieved a large plate from the coffee table. It was piled with lumpy, chewy, chocolate chip cookies. "Have as many as you like." She offered them the delicious goodies.

Isaac reached for a cookie, but Allison slapped his hand away. As mouthwatering and tempting as they were, Allison's parents had warned her never to eat un-packaged or homemade treats on Halloween. Usually she found their advice overly-protective and paranoid – who would want to give children poisoned candy? - but now she saw the wisdom in their words. She looked the old woman in the eye. "No thank you," she declined politely, but her fierce stare contained defiance and brazen courage. The old woman stared back at Allison. When the girl refused to look away, the woman grinned and laughed.

"I'm afraid cookies are all I have, my dears. I don't normally get visitors on Halloween, especially so many at once!"

"Actually ma'am," Scott interjected civilly, "we're looking for our friend Stiles."

"'Stiles'?" The old woman smacked the boy's name. Scott's skin crawled as she licked her thin lips with her fat tongue, exposing pallid gums.

"Yes, ma'am. He knocked on your door a little while ago, and we've been waiting for him, but he hasn't come back. We were wondering if he was here, if you, uh, had seen him?"

The old woman tilted her head and scrunched up her face in thought. "Yes, I remember! The young policeman."

"That's him!"

"Why, he left here some time ago. I believe he went out the back door. The pathway is dark. Perhaps you missed him. Maybe you were distracted?"

"Maybe..." Scott looked at his friends. Isaac shrugged his shoulders. Allison shook her head, not in negation but in doubt. She wasn't certain anymore. Jackson had his arms crossed sulkily. Scott wondered if they could have missed Stiles exiting while he and Jackson were fighting. Maybe they hadn't noticed and he had wandered off the back way. Maybe he was already half-way home by now. But why would he leave them like that?

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, dears," the old woman apologized. She shuffled around them and reached for the door knob, cuing the children to leave. "I'm sure he's out there, wondering where you lot have gotten yourselves to."

"Thank you," Scott said. "Sorry to have bothered you. Good night."

The old woman opened the door a crack, and the children turned to leave. But Lydia stayed firmly rooted in place. She _knew_ the old hag was lying. Stiles hadn't left the house. She hadn't taken her eyes off it for one second; she would have seen him leave. Even if he had used another entrance, she would have noticed, would have perceived his shadow or heard his familiar gait. And he never would have ditched them willingly. _Never._ He was here somewhere, and she was going to find him.

"Excuse me, can I use your bathroom?" Lydia asked. The exodus paused. The old woman slowly closed the door uncertainly. She appeared confused, and then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Please," Lydia begged. "I really, really, _really_ have to go." She did a little pee-pee dance to emphasize her point.

"Alright." The old woman sighed, and retracted her hand from the door. She shambled to the base of the stairs. She gripped the banister. "Follow me, girl. I'll show you where it is. You children stay right there."

"Thank you!" Lydia hopped along after the woman, but not before giving Allison's hand a squeeze. "Stiles," she mouthed, and Allison nodded in understanding. They heard Lydia chattering as she climbed the stairs after the old woman.

Allison gestured the boys into a huddle. "We need to find Stiles," she whispered.

"What if he's not here?" Jackson asked.

"We can't take that chance. We'll split into two. Scott and Jackson, you guys search the left side. Isaac and I will search the right. Be quick, before the old woman comes back." The boys agreed to this plan, and they split up. They could hear Lydia's animated jabber from upstairs, as she asked the woman about different fixtures of her home. Then they heard a door slam shut – their signal to hurry up – and the old woman's step on the boards above their heads. They quickly reconvened at the door, their faces flushed. They had not found a single trace of their missing friend. Perhaps he wasn't there after all.

The old woman ambled down the stairs. Her breathing was a raspy gasp. She limped to the old rocking chair and gingerly lowered herself into it. "My hip's acting up. I just need to sit a moment, children. You're welcome to come in and wait for your friend. Bring the cookies with you. Why don't you have one?"

The children sat awkwardly in the woman's parlor. She unmuted the television and they watched with her as a vampire lured a young woman to him, and sank his teeth into her neck. They listened for the sound of a toilet flushing and taps running. The old lady pressed the cookies onto them. "Take one."

Scott reached for a cookie. He lifted it to his lips, but Allison stopped him. She grabbed it out of his hands and threw it onto the plate. Her face was pale. Scott opened his mouth to ask her why she had done such a thing, but she pointed to the cookie. He leaned closer and peered keenly at the dough. What he had first believed to be large chunks of chocolate appeared, on closer inspection, to be house flies! Scott gagged. The old woman turned her eye to look at him. "Alright, dear?"

"Yes'um. I just, uh, swallowed the wrong way." She nodded and rocked in her chair. Several minutes passed, and still they had not heard from Lydia. The old woman grew suspicious again. She started to rise from her chair. "Perhaps I should check on the poor girl-" Allison stopped her.

"Lydia always takes forever in the bathroom, even at school. It's all the skirts of her dress. She'll have to hold them up just right so they don't wrinkle," Allison rambled, coloring her lie with an abundance of words. Anything to keep the woman distracted. "And she always covers the seat with toilet paper before she sits. She also mentioned she wasn't feeling well earlier. I can go see if-"

Upstairs, Lydia screamed.


	4. Part Four: The Beldame

_**There is still one chapter left! Please don't forget to leave a review!**_

* * *

 **Part Four: The Beldame**

Lydia hoped Allison understood her plan. She trailed after the old woman, jabbering about the color of the wallpaper and the pretty home-made curtains, in order to provide her friends with a cover of noise as they searched the downstairs for clues. Lydia kept her eyes peeled for any sign of Stiles. Upstairs she counted six doors. Three of the doors were wide open, revealing a master bedroom, a guest room/sewing room, and the bathroom. Two of the doors were closed. Judging by their positions and the layout of the house, the first was probably a linen closet and the second led to the attic. The sixth door was partially open a crack. They passed it on their way to the bathroom. Lydia tried to peek inside, but the old woman casually closed it before she had a chance, muttering about messy rooms.

The old woman showed her the bathroom. The toilet, sink, and bathtub were a pale pink. The floral wallpaper was beige with ruby roses and green leaves. The shower curtain, bath mat, and fuzzy toilet seat cover were all a shade of magenta. Lydia thought it was the ugliest bathroom she had ever seen. She thanked the woman and slammed the door, hoping to signal her friends. Above the toilet was a cross-stitched sign of a little boy and girl. Their wide, dead eyes seemed to stare at Lydia. Their thread mouths were frozen in strained smiles. "There is nothing so precious as a child," the sign read.

Lydia turned away from it and pressed her ear to the door. She listened as the old woman's footsteps retreated downstairs. She quietly opened the door and tiptoed down the hallway. She stopped in front of the door the old woman had closed. Lydia wondered what the woman had wanted to hide from her. She doubted it was dirty sheets and an unswept floor. A dim light glowed under the door. Lydia slowly turned the knob, and opened the door just enough to squeeze through. A decrepit floor board creaked under her foot. She prayed they hadn't heard the sound downstairs.

Lydia paused and listened. She could hear the television droning. Lydia stepped into the room. It was small and simple, containing a double-doored wardrobe, a wooden toy chest, a rocking chair by the window, and a narrow, little bed. The dull light shone from a lamp in the corner near the rocking chair, casting shadows throughout the room. A lone oval mirror hung on the wall. It was splintered, the glass shattered in thin cracks like a spiderweb. Through the gap in the curtains, Lydia could perceive steel bars on the window.

There was a lump in the bed. The blankets were pulled all the way up. Lydia crept over, her ballet slippers soundless on the carpeted floor. Her heart hammered in her chest. Standing near the head, she reached out a trembling hand and drew back the covers. A boy in a policeman's uniform lay motionless. He was missing his hat, but was otherwise intact. "Stiles!" Lydia cried. "Oh, Stiles! Stiles, are you okay?" The boy didn't move. He was lying on his side, facing away from her. She gently rolled him onto his back. "Stiles?"

Lydia gasped. Stiles' face was pale and his eyes were covered in a thick white gauze. At first she thought he was dead, but she relaxed when she noticed the gentle rising and falling of his chest. She decided he must be unconscious. "Stiles?" she pleaded softly, but with due urgency. "Come on, Stiles. Please wake up." Lydia touched his face. He felt cold. "Stiles?" she patted his cheek. "You need to get up now."

Her fingers hovered over the bandage at his eyes. She hesitated. What was the purpose of gauze except to cover injuries? Had Stiles hurt himself? Had the old woman hurt Stiles? What if, Lydia shuddered at the thought, the old woman had scooped out Stiles eyes? What if she removed the bandage and there was nothing but two gaping holes staring back at her? But the gauze was spotless, and there were no signs of blood. She had to know.

Lydia sank her fingers into the gauze. It was not cotton, as she expected. The threads were silky and sticky. It clung to her hands as she tore pieces off. It wouldn't tear easily. She held a fragment up to inspect it. The texture was wrong too: instead of the usual squares and wavy lines of gauze fabric, this was patterned in tight, tiny stitches. Like knitting.

She needed to get this stuff off Stiles. _Now._ Lydia dug her fingernails in. She ripped off strip after strip, but there seemed to be no end to the threads. Finally she was able to free Stiles' eyes. She jumped back, startled. She had assumed he was unconscious, and therefore had assumed his eyes would be closed. Brown eyes stared widely back at her, blinking against the sudden light. Stiles struggled to focus on her face. "Stiles! You're awake!"

He blinked. His lips opened a fraction of a centimeter. A scratchy noised echoed from the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Lydia's brow wrinkled. "Stiles, are you okay?"

He tried again. A wheeze, and then: "Ca...ov..." he breathed. Lydia mimicked the sound, shaping her own lips to fully form the words. "Ca...n't...ove..."

"Can't...ove? You can't...move? Stiles, you can't move!?" Stiles' chin tilted downward slightly. Lydia's eyes filled with tears, and her throat constricted in panic. She hadn't anticipated Stiles being immobile. How was she going to get him out of here? She was too small; she couldn't carry him. She wouldn't be able to sneak him pass the old lady, and even if she could create a distraction, Stiles couldn't make a run for it. What if Stiles was paralyzed forever? What was Lydia going to do? "Did she hurt you?"

"..oi...son..."

"Poison? She poisoned you?" Another incline of the head. She hoped that meant the paralysis was temporary. They didn't have time for effects to wear off, but she had an idea. If rubbing your limbs when you're cold helps you warm up by increasing blood circulation, maybe the same principle could be applied in this situation. "How much movement do you have?" Stiles' toes wiggled and his hands flinched against the sheet. She started there. Lydia propped Stiles up against the headboard, and then vigorously massaged his right hand between both of hers. She moved up to his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, and then worked on the left side. Rubbing between his shoulder and the crook of his neck, she noticed two small, red wounds on Stiles' neck. The skin around the holes was red and inflamed, so she avoided this area.

As Lydia worked, she counted the seconds in her head. She had already been gone too long. She hoped Allison could stall. "Try again," she commanded.

Stiles curled his fingers and angled his elbows. He was able to slightly bend his knees. Lydia was pleased with his progress. She knew how hard he must be fighting. "Keep trying," she encouraged. She leaned closer, and used her thumbs to massage his face, particularly around the mouth. He stared into her face, into her blue eyes hard with determination. It was the closest and most intimate contact she had ever had with a boy, but the danger kept her from pondering this thought, prevented her from any inkling of awkwardness. Her brain was in emergency mode, and her one coherent thought was that she needed to get Stiles out of here alive.

Stiles had regained minimal movement. Lydia put his arm around her shoulders, and she was able to slide him off the bed. She leaned his weight against her. She had to hobble forward slowly to keep them both from falling. She maneuvered him out the door and down the hallway. Her muscles screamed at her; they felt like they were on fire. He tried his best to help her.

"Att...tic..." He lifted his finger towards one of the closed doors.

"Stiles, we are _not_ going up there." Moving farther away from the front door did not strike her as a good idea. She was worried enough about dragging Stiles _down_ stairs, she would never be able to get him _up._

"Att...tic." He said more strongly. "You. Go."

"You want me to go up to the attic?"

"Yea..."

"Stiles, I don't think that's very smart. I can't just leave you."

Stiles nodded sharply. "Leave...m-me...you...go...Other...ch-kids..."

Lydia's eyes widened in horror. "You think there might be other kids in the house?" Stiles nodded. As they passed the banister, he reached out and grabbed it, struggling to pull his weight away from Lydia and lean against it. She shifted his weight onto the railing, and looked into his eyes. They were tight in determination and bright with compassion. _Stupid boy_ , she thought, _always worried more about others than himself._ She knew he wasn't going to leave until she went into the attic and checked.

Lydia opened the door. Its hinges creaked faintly. A waft of stale, rank air drifted down to her. The stairway was narrow, leading up into darkness. She swallowed, and glanced back at him over her shoulder. She hated small, dark spaces. "Be...lie...ve...you..." Stiles tried to smile and gave her a crooked thumbs up.

Lydia carefully climbed the ancient staircase. She groped blindly in the dark for something to hold onto. Near the top, she walked through the first of a series of cobwebs. She bit down a squeal. The white threads stuck to her arms and her face. They matted in her hair. The attic was warm and stuffy – and covered in spider webs. In the light of the moon pouring through the sole window, the white strands gleamed eerily. Lydia glanced around the room. She could see nothing but webs, certainly nothing resembling captive children. The space looked like the old woman hardly ventured up here.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Lydia could perceive various sized forms scattered throughout the room. She clawed her way to the nearest lump. It was laid prostrate on the floor, roughly four and half feet in length and round. The entire object was wrapped in the same sticky gauze as Stiles' eyes. She dug her fingers in, tearing pieces away until she had made a hole to peek inside. Lydia leaned closer for a better look. A partially decayed little face looked back at her with sunken eyes, a jaw hanging wide open in a silence shriek.

Lydia screamed.

She scrambled backwards, right into another of the wrapped packages. Something hard and pointed poked into her back. _A bone,_ she realized with startling and frightening clarity. She was surrounding by cocoons containing corpses. The bones and rotting remains of unfortunate children who had knocked on the old woman's door.

Lydia dashed down the attic stairs. Stiles leaned against the banister, but he had regained more motion, particularly in his face. He was able to articulate more clearly: "What ...happened? What...did..you-?"

Lydia wrapped his arm around her and took his weight. There wasn't time to explain. "We have to get out of here. _Now._ " She stumbled to the staircase, but a shadow blocked her path. The old woman loomed over her. How had she climbed the stairs so quickly? Lydia stared into blazing azure eyes, and felt she was looking into the dark abyss of hell itself. "You...you're not human."

Her friends were gathered at the bottom of the stairs. She could see the front door behind them. The only thing standing between her and freedom was the witch woman. Stiles shrank back against her. Lydia could feel his fear pulsating through him into her body. _Run!_ She wanted to shout. _Help!_ But no sound emerged.

A grotesque smile curled the old lady's lips. She stood tall and upright. Old age melted out of her. Limbs grew straight and strong. Wrinkles smoothed into healthy, rosy flesh. Color seeped along each individual strand of hair, turning white into a rich auburn. Then Lydia watched as the woman's legs and hips bloated and expanded, ripping through the fabric of her dress. The flesh of her thighs and buttocks exploded. Where there had been only two legs a moment before, there were now eight. From the bellybutton up, she was a woman, but her lower body was arachnid. Her voice was velvet: "Going so soon?"

For a moment, everything was still. Time seemed to freeze.

The spider-woman lunged for Stiles, wrenching the incapacitated boy from Lydia's arms. The redheaded girl crashed to the floor. The air was knocked from her lungs. She screamed as one of the eight hairy legs shot out and pierced her shoulder. She howled in pain.

"Jackson, call the police!" Scott ordered, running up the stairs. The turtle-boy scurried to the kitchen, where there was a landline phone hooked to the wall. He punched in the numbers 911 – the seconds the call took to connect were an eternity – and shouted at the dispatcher about evil old ladies with spider legs.

Scott charged the woman mindlessly. She caught him in two of her legs and tossed him aside like a rag doll. Allison and Isaac grabbed the nearest weapons at their disposable – her witch's broom and the plate of cookies. The stairs gave them the disadvantage. Allison ran up one side, and Issac up the other, in an attempt to surround the woman. Allison swung the broom, and successfully crippled one of the spider legs. The woman hissed viciously and struck out at Allison, knocking the girl backwards. Allison tumbled down several of the stairs, before managing to catch herself. Her head swam with stars.

Isaac broke the plate across the woman's back. Cookies flew into the air, and the ceramic shattered into pieces. The woman caught Isaac by the head in two of her great legs. "Sorrow is my favorite flavor. Maybe I'll save you for a later snack." Isaac squirmed in her grasp, and managed to wrench himself free from the sack. He tumbled down after Allison. The woman laughed. She stepped lightly over the fallen children. She cradled Stiles in her human arms, drawing him close to her breast. She caressed his face tenderly. He whimpered at her touch.

"Let...my...friends...go..."

"That's why I wanted you Stiles." She put her face close to his hair and inhaled. "You smell wonderfully of sorrow and courage and...love." She put her head up and fangs sprouted suddenly from her mouth. She swooped in to Stiles' neck, when she was bashed in the side of the head. Lydia tossed aside Allison's broom and pulled Stiles from the woman's arms. She and Stiles collapsed in a heap on the floor. The woman touched her finger to her mouth. Blood trickled from a cut. "You meddlesome girl!" she hissed. "I'm going to kill you slowly." She advanced on the children. Lydia threw out her arms and shielded Stiles with her body.

"Hey witch!" Scott's eyes flashed angrily. He stood to one side of the hall, panting. The woman turned to look, and he charged her again. He enclosed his arms around the massive body, and tackled her. Boy and spider tumbled down the stairs. They sprawled motionless at the bottom. Allison and Isaac rushed down to their friend. Scott was dazed, but otherwise alright. They helped him to stand. The spider stirred and opened her eyes. The children cowered back as she started to rise. She snarled and spit venom at them.

With a mighty roar, Jackson appeared from behind. He leaped on the beast and stabbed her in the heart with a pair of knitting needles. She fell to the floor, sputtering and clutching at her chest. She convulsed as the life drained from her eyes. Jackson shoved the needles in deeper. The spider twitched a few times and released a final exhale.

"Is it over?" Isaac asked.

The spider exploded in an cloud of dust. In her place was nothing but a pile of dirt, cobwebs, and a pair of knitting needles. Police sirens screeched to a halt outside. Red and blue rotating lights lit up the windows and the wallpaper. Sheriff Stilinski burst through the front door, his weapon drawn.

"I think," Lydia said, panting heavily, Stiles leaning against her shoulder. "It's finally over."


	5. Part Five: Unhappy Halloween

**Part Five: Unhappy Halloween**

The call came in at 9:56pm.

Sheriff Stilinski was sitting at his desk, tackling the mountain of paper work that had already accumulated that night: a vandalized stop sign on Seventh Street, a fender-bender on Elm, a smashed store window on Main, a teacher's TP'ed house on King, and a group of teenage hoodlums they had tracked from Eleventh to Walnut Grove, whose antics included trespassing, underage drinking, destruction of public property, and general assholery which ranged from blatant disrespect of authority to frightening small children. He could hear their irritating post-pubescent voices from the holding cells, yelling profanities and nonsense about violations of their rights. He heard the word "pig" several times. Stilinski thought it ironic he was labelled a "pig" for upholding the order they were so filthily trying to mangle. He might have been amused at the thought, might even have cut the punks some slack, if he wasn't overworked and already extremely exhausted. By Halloween standards, the "fun" was only just beginning. The mayhem wouldn't start until most of the children were home in bed, sleeping off their sugar-induced comas. The real lunatics came out late.

Sheriff Stilinski had tried phoning Stiles an hour earlier, to see how the trick-or-treating had gone. There hadn't been any answer. He assumed Stiles was crashing at the McCall residence that night. He would call Melissa when he had the chance, just to check in. Stiles had seemed happy with the impromptu costume his father had given him. All toothy grins and proud smiles as he stood in front of the mirror, introducing himself to his reflection as "Officer Stilinski, Junior."

Sheriff Stilinski smiled at the memory, but there was a nervous knot in the pit of his stomach he couldn't get rid of. It wasn't that he thought Stiles had faked his enthusiasm, or that he wouldn't have a good time tonight, and even though he still felt guilty about not picking up Stiles' Batman costume, the apprehension gnarling his insides was worse than those things. He couldn't shake the feeling Stiles was going to land himself in trouble.

A female deputy brought him a hot cup of coffee and he smiled at her gratefully. He tossed down his pen and accepted the paper cup. He took a sip and then gulped down half its contents. The coffee burned his esophagus on the way down, but the pain felt good. The deputy watched him, wringing her hands together nervously. Sheriff Stilinski set down his cup and sighed. "Yes, McBride, what is it?"

The deputy startled. She clasped her hands together and said slowly, "Sheriff, there's a call on line two."

Sheriff Stilinski put the index and middle finger of his right hand to his temple, and pressed down on the pounding that had started beneath the skin. A vein under his eye pulsed and made its presence apparent in the severe overhead light. "What is it this time?"

"It's a boy, sir. He says he and his friends were attacked by an old lady with, uh, well with spider legs."

"Another prank call?"

"I thought so, sir, but the boy seems legitimately panicked. He says the woman attempted to kidnap one of his friends. He asked for you specifically." The knot in the sheriff's stomach tightened. He prayed this was just another case of a paranoid kid, sensitive to the spookiness of Halloween, who had imagined danger where there was none. "He said his name was Jackson Whittemore. He and his friends are on Pineview Crescent."

Sheriff Stilinski stood abruptly and grabbed his jacket. He swept past the deputy; she hurried at his heels. "Why didn't you lead with that piece of information?" he snapped. The deputy's eyes widened at her superior's gruff manner, but she hurried to her desk to fulfill his next orders. "I'm going to handle this one personally. Send a couple deputies after me – Gonzales and Stewart will do. Tell them we have a possible 207A. Suspect may be armed and dangerous."

"Sir, there's something else you should know!" He was already at the door, pushing it open. Cold night air blew into the station. "He requested an ambulance as well." Sheriff Stilinski blanched. The shiver that crept down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature.

Sheriff Stilinski reached the scene first. He left the cruiser running, and bounded out of the vehicle. The rotating red and blue lights illuminated the area, flickering dimly on the ancient house, and giving it an unearthly appearance. A demon house from hell. In the distance, he could hear the faint shriek of approaching sirens. The sheriff didn't have time to wait for back-up to arrive. He unholstered his weapon and raced up the pathway. He could hear noises inside.

The door was unlocked. He threw it open, gun drawn and ready to defend. Six little sets of eyes turned to look at him. There was an audible collective sigh of relief. Sheriff Stilinski's eyes scanned the room for any sign of a threat. Stiles' friends Scott, Allison, and Isaac stood to his left in a tight huddle. Jackson was a short ways away, to his right. They seemed intact and unharmed, aside from a few scrapes and bruises. Scott was holding his head with one hand, and Allison had carpet burn on the exposed section of her arm. Jackson had the beginnings of a nasty purple shiner around his left eye, and the entire right side of Isaac's face was covered in cuts and bruises. Scott could be nursing a possible concussion, but otherwise the kids were alright.

A small pile of damp soil was heaped at the bottom of the stairs, and at the top sat Lydia Martin, messy and red-faced. She panted wearily, and patted the hand of the brown-haired boy who was leaning heavily against her. "I think," she wheezed. "It's finally over."

Sheriff Stilinski assessed the scene in a fraction of a second. Behind him, he heard the deputy's car screech to a halt at the curb, followed closely by an ambulance. The immediate area was secure. His eyes fell on his son, and he lost his composure. The danger was gone, and he shifted from sheriff-mode to dad-mode. He forgot about being a cop. He forgot about other people's children. His fatherly instincts took over. Sheriff Stilinski vaulted up the stairs and enveloped Stiles in his arms. He pressed his son against him. "Hi...Dad," Stiles murmured weakly into his shoulder.

Sheriff Stilinski drew the boy back, and cupped his face with his hand. He examined Stiles' face for injuries. He noticed his son's speech patterns were off, and he hardly moved. Getting Stiles to sit still was a feat of gargantuan proportions even Atlas could not endure. Stiles tried to move his arms to embrace his father, but his movements were feeble and sluggish. Yet his eyes were clear and alert. Sheriff Stilinski's brow wrinkled. "What's wrong Stiles? Have you been _drugged?_ " Stiles glanced at Lydia, and a look of understanding passed between them. They could not tell Sheriff Stilinski the truth about what had happened. Who would believe them anyway?

She answered on his behalf. "The woman who lives here drugged Stiles." She pointed at the puncture wounds on the side of the boy's neck. Sheriff Stilinski's frown deepened in hatred. "She used a needle to inject him with a drug that causes temporary paralysis. We came looking for him, and, uh, she ran away. Also, you're going to want to check the attic."

Sheriff Stilinski didn't give a rat's ass about the attic. "Thank you, Lydia. Why don't you go downstairs with your friends? You can tell the officers what you told me." Sheriff Stilinski ordered Deputy Stewart to check the surrounding area for the suspect, while Deputy Gonzales finished clearing the rest of the house. Then Stewart was to take the children's statements.

Lydia nodded and descended to where her friends stood. Paramedics had arrived and were treating the kids for injuries. She was immediately seized by Allison in a tight hug, and it was effectively – and quietly – communicated to the other children that they needed to get their stories straight, and _not_ mention any horrible spider-ladies. Scott glanced over the EMT's shoulder as the man asked him questions and shined a light in his eyes. His face was trouble, and he ignored the man who was attempting to determine the extent of his concussion. "Isaac," he asked, "did you get those injuries during the fight?"

"Yes," Isaac lied. The lying came easily to him now, but he was glad Scott had suggested such a perfect reason for his injuries, that he need not think of one himself. "The old witch did this to me." Scott nodded and accepted this as truth, and the female EMT cleaned and bandaged Isaac's scrapes. Had Scott been older perhaps he would have recognized the extent of Isaac's injuries could not have resulted from any incidents during the night – even his tumble down the stairs – and that the coloring of his bruising was too dark to be only several minutes old. Yet they were just children and unable to see past the facade that fooled even the adults in Isaac's life.

Sheriff Stilinski shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around his son's shoulders. He lifted Stiles into his arms. He cuddled the boy close to his chest. When was the last time he had carried Stiles? Not for years, it seemed. He could feel Stiles' heart beating like a caged bird. He carried him outside, to the waiting ambulance. He set Stiles down inside and explained the situation to a third paramedic. The man was confident that the drug would wear off shortly, and Stiles would regain full mobility. He just needed plenty of rest and fluids.

The EMT bandaged Stiles' neck and inserted an IV in his hand. The boy winced as the sharp needle pierced his skin. He hated needles. Sheriff Stilinski frowned. He wished there was another method of inserting IVs – one that didn't involve breaking through his son's fragile skin. He placed a hand on his son's knee and tried to encourage him. Stiles reached for his hand. Sheriff Stilinski curled his fingers around the smaller ones. Stiles' hands were so cold.

Deputies Gonzales and Stewart came out of the house, trailed by five weary children. While taking their statements, the children had spoken animatedly, talking loudly over each other, but they were now quiet. Sheriff Stilinski read the exhaustion in their faces. They crowded around Stiles, asking him questions about how he was doing and what had happened before their arrival. Lydia alone was silent. She stared steadfastly into Stiles' eyes. Stiles mirrored her expression, her gaze. Sheriff Stilinski recognized the look on their faces. He had seen it a thousand times, especially during his days with the LAPD. It was the look of trauma victims, of children who had seen and known too much. It was the look of lost innocence. "Stewart, take the kids home," Stilinski ordered. "Their parents must be worried sick."

Stiles' friends were loaded into the police cruiser without complaint. Even Scott, who wanted to stay at his best friend's side, and Jackson, who had been cheated out of his candy, as it lay scattered and crushed on the street, did not protest. They were all tired and sore. A vague fear clung to them like a layer of sweat, though the fearful thing itself was gone. They longed for home and their snug little beds, for the comfort of their parents' loving arms. Only for Isaac did the idea of home spark no feelings of solace.

Sheriff Stilinski rubbed his thumb over Stiles' knuckles, and pulled the shock blanket the EMT had given him tighter around his little body. Deputy Gonzales interrupted the moment and pulled the sheriff aside. "I called forensics," Gonzales informed him. "You're going to want to see this, sir."

Sheriff Stilinski hesitated. He looked at Stiles. These were the moments he hated most: when duty called him away from his son. Stiles nodded and released his hand. Sheriff Stilinski wasn't sure what hurt worse: that Stiles understood the sheriff's duty and graciously let him leave, or that after what had happened he would still leave his son for his job.

Sheriff Stilinski followed Gonzales into the house. The deputy led him upstairs to a second-story bedroom. It was small and sparsely furnished. The narrow bed and toy chest in the corner suggested it was a child's room. Sheriff Stilinski frowned when he noticed the barrier blocking the window. Gonzales opened the double-door wardrobe and stepped aside. Sheriff Stilinski stepped closer. Instead of the expected clothing, the wardrobe held a random assortment of items: cloth bags and teddy bears, hats and shoes and other accessories. The sheriff's eye fell on a navy blue peaked hat. He lifted it up and inspected it closely. His scowl deepened. "This is mine. I gave it to Stiles."

Gonzales pulled on a rubber glove, so as not to compromise the scene, and removed a faded pink plush unicorn. He showed it to the sheriff. "Look familiar?" Stilinski inspected the stuffed animal. Why keep this toy separate from the others in the toy box? It _did_ look familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. "The Murphy girl who disappeared back in '02-"

"Had this with her when she disappeared." Sheriff Stilinski scanned the other items in the wardrobe. He pointed to a plastic red helmet. "Jake Byers, vanished 1998, was a Power Ranger for Halloween."

Now it was Gonzales' turn to frown. "There are hundreds of items in here. Do you think they all belong to missing children? Why would she keep them?"

"They're trophies." Sheriff Stilinski turned away. His hand tightened on the police hat. "Reminders of her victims." Deputy Gonzales blanched. "When the other officers get here, we'll bag this stuff for evidence. Have you checked the attic yet?"

"No, sir."

Lydia had told him specifically to check the attic. "We'll go up now."

The attic door was partially open. The air that wafted down the stairs was warm and rank. As they ascended, the sheriff kept his hand to the wall, searching for a light-switch, but he couldn't find one. The sheriff motioned with two fingers for the deputy to draw his weapon. The room was close and claustrophobic. There was no movement, but as the sheriff's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out several lumpy shapes. Gonzales stepped forward, and shouted as something sticky and silky plastered his face.

The sheriff unsheathed his flashlight and trained it on the deputy's face. Gonzales ripped the spider web from his face. He curled his nose. "Gross. I hate spiders." Sheriff Stilinski passed the radius of light around the room. One huge spider web covered the entirety of the attic. Gonzales' eyes widened. "What the hell?"

"Hold this." Sheriff Stilinski thrust his flashlight at the deputy and bent over one of the thread-weaved bundles. His fingers dug into the dusty fibers. A tiny skeletal face gaped back at him. Gonzales covered his mouth with his arm.

"Oh God." He gagged. "You're not opening another one?"

The threads on the second bundle were silkier and stickier. Only the thinnest layer of dust covered it. The tips of the sheriff's fingers brushed cold, soft flesh. The young boy was pale, his eyes closed in preternatural slumber. His body, clad in a tattered Captain America costume, was in the beginning stages of decay. Sheriff Stilinski sat back on his haunches and rubbed his face. He sighed heavily. "It's Sammy Collins."

Gonzales' brow furrowed. "The boy who went missing last Halloween?"

The sheriff nodded. "Yes." He stood and took his flashlight from Gonzales. "Judging from the level of decay, he's been dead less than a month."

"You mean...?"

"He was here the entire time. An entire year captive in his house. He never left Beacon Hills. Who knows what happened during that time...That woman would have done the same to Stiles..." Sheriff Stilinski turned abruptly and headed down the stairs. The front door opened, and a newcomer called the sheriff's name. Several deputies and the Beacon Hills forensics team crowded in the entryway. Sheriff Stilinski gave them their orders, and referred them to Gonzales for all further instruction.

"Where are you going, sir?"

"I'm taking my son home. You can handle this Gonzales." Stiles was reclining on a stretcher in the ambulance. Sheriff Stilinski knew he was feeling better: the boy was bombarding the paramedic with questions and picking at the bandage on his neck. The IV and shock blanket were gone, and color had returned to Stiles' face. "Is he good to go home?"

"He should be. Just monitor him throughout the night. He can have a child's Tylenol if he feels any pain or notices any stiffness. If he starts to run a fever or loses mobility, take him to Emergency." The paramedic smiled and patted Stiles' shoulder. "But I'm sure he'll be fine. You have quite a boy here, Sheriff."

Stilinski smiled. "I think I'll keep him."

Though Stiles had regained enough movement in his legs to be able to shuffle, the sheriff lifted his son out of the ambulance. "Dad, I can walk on my own, ya know."

"Yeah, I know." But he did not lower his son. Stiles wrapped his arms around his father's neck, and Sheriff Stilinski carried him to the police cruiser. He packed Stiles into the passenger seat, fastened his seat belt, and tucked his sheriff's jacket around him to keep him warm. When he started the car, he cranked up the heater. Static crackled over the police scanner. He reached over and turned it down. As of that moment, he was unavailable.

They drove down Pineview Crescent in silence. Stiles watched the witch's house grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror. They turned left at the intersection. The greater Beacon Hills area sparkled in the distance. _How many times have I passed that house to visit Claudia's grave?_ Sheriff Stilinski thought grimly. He glanced over at his son. The boy's forehead was pressed against the window. His face lit up under the street lamps, but his eyes were strangely vacant and distant. _I almost lost him too._

The air in the car was too hot, but Stiles didn't complain. His father kept his eyes on the road, as they drove wordlessly through the streets of town. Trick-or-treaters had long since returned home to count their loot. Houses and yards were dark and quiet. Faceless pumpkins stared darkly, and plastic ghosts tumbled in the breeze like trashed candy wrappers.

"Dad, are you...mad at me?" Stiles asked softly.

Sheriff Stilinski glanced at his son. "Stiles. Why would I be mad at you?"

"I just..." Stiles shrugged his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't listen to you. I was supposed to protect the others, but I didn't pay attention to where we were, and then when Jackson started picking on Isaac and Scott, I..." Tears slipped from Stiles' eyes. "I went off on my own. You told me not to, but I did. I thought if I went I could...I shouldn't have. The old woman invited me into her house, and I went in. You told me not to be careful, and I..." Stiles sobbed heavily.

Sheriff Stilinski pulled over onto the side of the road. They were only a block from home, but Stiles was crying so hard he couldn't drive another yard. The sheriff gathered the boy into his arms. Stiles hid his face in his father's chest. His thin arm snaked around his father's back. He weakly clenched a bunch of the sheriff's shirt in his fist. Sheriff Stilinski could feel Stiles' tears dampening his chest. He put his hand on the back of Stiles' head, holding him close. He tangled his fingers in Stiles' matted hair and breathed in his scent. "Shh, Stiles, it's okay. It's okay, son."

Stiles shook his head against his father's breast. "It-it-it's not," he gulped. "You-you t-t-old m-me...and s-s-she...h-her m-mouth...I-I c-c-couldn't m-move or s-see...I d-d-es-er-ved i-it!"

A shiver ran up Sheriff Stilinski's spine. He crushed Stiles tighter against him. What had that woman done to his son? "Stiles, listen to me. Are you listening?" Stiles nodded and sniffled. "You did _so good_ tonight. You looked after your friends. You kept them safe, you kept them together. You're a Protector, Stiles. You have a natural instinct to protect people, even if sometimes it means putting yourself in danger."

Stiles drew back and looked into his father's face. "Like you?"

The sheriff smiled. "Yes. You'll make a wonderful police officer someday." Stilinski wiped the tears from Stiles' face with his sleeve. He held his son's chin, memorizing every line and angle, every mole and freckle. "I'm not mad at you, Stiles. I'm proud of you. What that woman did to you..." Sheriff Stilinski swallowed, remembering the webbed corpses in the attic. "You could never deserve that, no matter what you did. Lydia told me how brave you were, how you tried to look after them. Did you know about the attic?"

"I thought there might be other kids."

"And you didn't want to leave without them?" Stiles nodded. "See, Stiles, you have such a good heart. You're still young. You have your whole life ahead of you to break the rules and disobey me. But no matter what happens, no matter what situations you end up in or what trouble you get into, I want you to remember two things. Just two. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah."

"You can always come to me."

"What's thing number two?"

"I love you."

Stiles smiled. "I love you too, Dad." Sheriff Stilinski hugged Stiles one final time, and then put the car into Drive. Stiles wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and snuggled back against the seat.

When they got home, his father would draw his bath and put him to bed. The sheriff would call the station, receive any updated reports, give his final orders, and take himself off-duty. Then he would spend the night in a chair beside Stiles' bed, fending off the nightmares that were sure to come. And when the morning dawned, chasing away the darkness and awakening his son, he might take a sick day and get some sleep. Or he might spend the day tossing a baseball with his hyperactive son. Chase him around the yard and tumble laughing to the ground. Forget the faces of missing children. Forget the night his son couldn't walk, couldn't run from the danger breathing down his neck. Forget the attic of tiny corpses in costumes, and the little room with the little bed.

Stiles laid his cheek against the seat and watched his father. His face was dimly illuminated by the lights of the dashboard. His green eyes sparkled supernaturally with the blinking of the turning signal. Stiles' fingers brushed against the cold metal plate on his breast: "J. Stilinski."

John Stilinski sighed as he turned into their driveway. Pieces of the Jack O'Lantern Stiles had carved the night before were smashed and scattered on the lawn. A dozen gooey egg shells were splattered on the front porch and windows.

He _hated_ Halloween.

 **END**

* * *

 _ **Sorry this is coming so late: life got in the way this week. I hope the ending doesn't feel as sloppy and rushed as it does in my head. I really wanted to get this posted tonight, and I really wanted to end with that line (having come full circle from the first chapter), and this chapter ended up being longer than anticipated, so please excuse any choppiness. I always need to insert some Sheriff and Stiles love into my fics. They are my absolute favs. 3  
I hope you enjoyed. Please remember to leave a review!**_


End file.
